


Sunrise and Sunset

by ElderWhizzerBrown



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Another moving in fic for these three?, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Reflection, Who’s “the book?”, i like my helenes alive and my anatoles with all their limbs intact dammit, in MY fanfic?, its more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-21 22:17:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderWhizzerBrown/pseuds/ElderWhizzerBrown
Summary: “I don’t understand. What…”Anatole squeezes his hand tighter, less as a comfort and more for support. “It’s yours. Your room. Our room.”





	Sunrise and Sunset

_ “ _ Hurry up, you oaf.” Hélène’s voice teases, her hand gripping his as she pulled him along. 

 

Fedya’s hand reaches up to fiddle with the blindfold, but Anatole slaps it away from his other side. “No peeking!”

 

Fyodor Dolokhov had never loved anyone but his mother and sister. The sky is blue. Facts of life, the two of them. 

 

Anatole squeezes his hand again after he almost trips on the base of the stairs. “Careful now.” Considering how well he thought he knew their house, it’s odd how hard it is to navigate when he can’t see.

 

He remembers meeting Anatole on the front, years ago, before he was a captain. Soft, styled, blond hair, a cheerful demeanor, pale blue eyes. The prince had charmed him into his bed with a sparkling smile and convinced him to stay with his unspoken sorrow beneath it.

 

They took to kissing even when not using each other for pleasure.

 

At the top of the stairs, Hélène leaned in and kissed his neck. “You’re going to love it. We spent a week getting it perfect.”

 

“Happy name day to me, I suppose.”

 

Hélène he met separately. A ball he was invited to along with other ‘war heroes,’ once he became a captain. She’d smiled at him from across the ballroom, in green and pearls, daring him to ask her to dance. With shaky hands, he’d done just that.  

 

And when she leaned in to his ear and whispered an invitation to go off into another room? Well, he couldn’t exactly say no. 

 

He saw Anatole again about a week later, at a bar, and suddenly put two and two together when the lady on his arm turned out to be Hélène. Brother and sister. Looking closely now, the resemblance was obvious.

 

After the realization, he was relieved neither cared if he saw the other. 

 

A door creaks open and they lead him in, closing it behind them. “Ready?” they ask as one.

 

He nods. Four hands scramble to rip off his blindfold. 

 

A pair of beds. A dresser. A curtain pulled back from the window, with a view of the city. It’s a bedroom. Their bedroom, he’s seen it a thousand times.

 

“I don’t understand. What…”

 

Anatole squeezes his hand tighter, less as a comfort and more for support. “It’s yours. Your room. Our room.”

 

“We want you to move in,” Hélène explains. “Properly, at least,” she adds, since they all know he practically lives here anyways.

 

Fedya’s knees go weak. “You want…” His mind thinks over the implication, how it was considered improper enough for the siblings to live together, without throwing an rough, unmarried military man into the mix. But one glance at their faces wipes away his doubts. Of course they’ll make it work. They always do.

 

He did stupid things to impress them. Not Fedya’s finest moment, but he was scared they’d come to their senses and realize a bastard nobody like him wasn’t worth it, didn’t belong in the presence of this nobility.

 

Like the time he was dared to drink a bottle of rum while sitting on a third story window. Anatole had sighed in relief when he survived, hugging him and kissing him and telling him he was, “a blasted idiot, Fedya, honestly.”

 

Or the time Fedya dueled Hélène’s husband to protect her honor, even though she insisted he didn’t need to. She’d nursed him back to health when Pierre shot him.

 

Again, not his finest moment.

 

“Of course we want you to move in.” Anatole laughs, wrapping his arms around Fedya’s waist and pulling them together. “I wanted to ask you months ago, but Lena insisted we wait until your name day.” He bounces away and opens the top dresser drawer, pulling out a bottle. “She also said this was a stupid present, but I got you both anyway.”

 

Fedya takes it. Whiskey with a bow wound about it. “Thank you, Tolya. But I think I like the first one a tad bit more.”

 

Hélène smirks, leaning in to kiss him again. Anatole joins in, his lips on Fedya’s neck. 

 

He confessed his love to Hélène after the duel, through a haze of pain. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell Anatole until after his failed elopement with Natalya Rostova. 

 

Anatole has been sulking in his room all day, waiting for Pierre to officially kick him out when he got home. Fedya kissed him deeply and told him that maybe, just maybe, his life didn’t have to be over.

 

They left Hélène and traveled to Petersburg. She joined them a year later, after finally getting a divorce from Pierre on grounds of his involvement with the Rostov girl.

 

The two of them step back now, smiling at him. His heart twists in on itself. He has no idea what it is about them, but something makes them both so perfect.

 

Fedya laughs happily. “I love you both. So much.”

 

So perhaps Fyodor Dolokhov did love someone. After all, at nightfall the sky turns red. 

**Author's Note:**

> Why can I only write moving in fics for these three?


End file.
